


Family

by Aithilin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Family, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-23 19:02:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 4,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1576193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles around the Holmes-Trevor family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Just in for the usual?"

He tries to make it sound casual— keep any edge of hope or disdain out of his voice. Make it seem like he just asked an innocent question.

"Or is it another short one?"

Lestrade never was very good at keeping his mouth shut when he wanted to.

He refused to look at Victor, focused on Sherlock instead. The park was empty for a Wednesday afternoon, but it gave Sherlock free reign of the playground and grass with Liam. Little Liam, who seemed immune to jet lag, and thought nothing of taking long trips to see half of his family.

Little Liam, who ignored and accepted every new, telling scar on his Papa’s skin as easily as he accepted every new bit of ink that covered his Daddy. Who ran to Lestrade for a hug and kiss to his curls, but thought nothing of the toy in Uncle Greg’s hands.

Little Liam, who currently had the world’s only consulting detective lifting him up to pluck caterpillars off leaves and peek at empty birds’ nests.

Who was a constant stream of chatter about new things. Who played and loved and trusted with all the innocence of a normal child raises in the healthiest of homes. Who sought out adventure as enthusiastically as his Papa, but had the good sense to be home in time for dinner like his Daddy.

Who made Lestrade wish he could keep the boy here with him and Sherlock year ‘round. Who made him wish that this happy extension of his own family lived closer. 

"Does wonders for him. Haven’t seen Sherlock so relaxed in—"

Lestrade is cut off by Victor’s hand on his arm and a smile. “We’re summering in Sussex. If you want to stop by for a weekend.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade has a spare room available.

It was just a small side room— a little spare tucked away in his own flat. It started off with a bed and some drawers, then became storage until about three years ago. Three years ago, it became Liam’s room.

He didn’t stay often— a night here or there when Victor and Sherlock needed their time alone, or if they both got caught up in work. The first invitation had been met with surprise and shock— Mrs. Hudson was away, the Watsons had no space and little Amanda was fussy, Mycroft was out of the question (ever since Liam came back from one afternoon with a tiny suit and an extensive understanding of Parliament), and the Holmes parents were too far to help. Lestrade offered his home to the boy.

It took one night for him to decide that the spare room would be Liam’s room.

Now it was a tradition. Victor would warn him a few days before the visit, and Lestrade would stock up on kids’ food and toiletries, get a few days off from work, and take in the boy for his own little visit while Sherlock and Victor reunited.

It had started with an old teddy bear. Then grew to brighter curtains and sheets, a toy chest and special plates, a small collection of movies and books added into his own.

But when Liam was dropped off for the start of his visit— Sherlock and Victor headed out to prepare Victor’s inherited estate for summer— Lestrade net him with the old teddy bear in hand.

"Uncle Greg!" Liam loved trying to throw a Lestrade off balance with his hugs— something that had started to happen more often as he grew. "We went to the museum!"

And for a few days, his home would be filled with chatter and toys. And evening calls to parents out of town. And a little boy a Lestrade wished he could see more often— because he seemed to be the very best of his own pseudo-adopted son.


	3. Chapter 3

"No no no!"

No one had actually expected a five-year-old boy capable of slamming a door, but none of the three men in the room had the heart to scold Liam for it. In the wake of the outburst, Lestrade set about his kitchen— put away the remains of a breakfast made of sugar and bright colours, and started on tea for them all.

"How long will you be gone?"

"A month at the most," Victor answered, still watching the door to the spare room in case his son came out on his own. "It’s not a big emergency—"

"Then don’t go." Lestrade knew how childish that sounded. How useless and naive it was. But it was a simple solution, and entirely impossible. But Victor and Liam had only just arrived a few days ago.

“I wish I didn’t have to.” Victor said as he let himself fall into one of Lestrade’s chairs, eyes exhausted and hands stiff from a night spent sending and replying to hurried, panicked emails from halfway across the world.

Sherlock hadn’t moved from his spot near the room claimed as Liam’s own. But he accepted the tea offered. “Liam can stay a little longer. He has his room in Baker Street, of course.”

It would be the first time Victor hadn’t taken Liam with him back to India. It would be the first time Sherlock was the sole parent. It would be the first time since he returned that Sherlock would be solely responsible for another person.

It would be the first time that Sherlock wouldn’t have Victor there to shield Liam from the nightmares.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick musing on my Victor Trevor.

He liked to surprise people. He liked to show up to meetings in proper attire, with only the hint of ink peeking past his collar and cuffs. He liked to see their reactions as he broke down their perceptions of him as just another rich boy who inherited his business— because no one ever seemed to think that he inherited something that had been failing and turned it around. He liked to challenge the people his father would have flocked to, and bent backwards for, and valued most.

But most of all, Victor liked to challenge the authority he saw as unfair.

He had fought for his rights to his company, when his father threatened to disinherit him— what kind of business heir was a gay son, after all?

He had pushed to be recognized and respected when he turned the plantation around.

He had broken into the market on his own when he stepped beyond his peers and started selling new blends as well as just the leaves. And he fought still for that recognition.

He still fought for his workers, and took the cut to profits to make sure they weren’t suffering. Even though he was understaffed in the fields because he couldn’t afford to hire on more.

But most, Victor had fought for his family. He remembered Sherlock— tearing himself apart with drugs— the day he left, with an ultimatum for a five-year goal. He remembered the legal battles after adopting his son, and then coming out publicly.

He liked to remember every small victory, because they all stood as testament to proving his father wrong.

Victor liked to look at his successes more than his failures. He liked to force others around him to change their perceptions, and understand that he did have it easy— being from a wealthy, white, English family, who went through university before a homophobic father tried to change him— but that didn’t mean he didn’t still have a fight. He had decided long ago that he would fight, because he didn’t like that others didn’t have the chances he had.

And it was hard rising to where he was. It took years to walk into a room and command it. And he still had more to do.

But as he watched Sherlock get dragged around a park by Liam, forced to answer every question the boy could think of about the leaves and grass and birds and bugs, Victor thought that he could take some time off from fighting.

He could revel in this victory for a while longer.


	5. Chapter 5

They hadn’t properly met until well after Sherlock’s return from the dead. Victor hadn’t been able to visit until after the business with the blackmailer— Sherlock’s insistence— though Mycroft had kept him updated and set then up in contact while Sherlock was in hospital.

When they finally met, he had taken to Mary right away, surprised by how much like Sherlock she was— that clever wit and strange humour. They could chat for hours about everything from children to tea— with Mary often just asking him questions about the latter, though she admittedly preferred coffee. It helped that Liam was fascinated by her baby.

But when he met John, he tried to like him. They might have started off wrong, with John dropping by Baker Street without a care, while Victor was still jet lagged and grumpy. Reminders of that initial conversation still irked him:

"Oh, uh… Are you a client of Sherlock’s?"

"Really not."

He had found that John didn’t like too much change. He didn’t like that anything left at Baker Street was in Mrs. Hudson’s care and storage, while the room upstairs was turned into Liam’s room. He didn’t seem to like that Sherlock took fewer cases throughout the year, and virtually stopped during the visits. And he certainly didn’t seem to like that Sherlock was both unwilling and unable to drop everything for a visit with him.

Victor didn’t like John.

Liam picked up on it. He got shy around John. He clung to Victor or Sherlock, or ran off with Mary to see little Amanda, but he didn’t respond to John.

That reaction alone was enough to have Victor at odds with the man. His attitude towards Sherlock was another.

Sherlock knew, of course. Clever, observant Sherlock always knew. And he made his priorities clear, though John still dropped by unannounced, or tried to convince Sherlock out on a case he would have heard about. He would ignore Sherlock’s offers for more domestic outings, or refuse to acknowledge that not all cases Sherlock took were dangerous rooftop adventures— and solving the cold cases were just as rewarding to Sherlock and mad dashes across the city.

Victor didn’t like that John belittled or ignored Sherlock’s experiments and other work. That John didn’t seem to know that Sherlock wrote articles for journals about his findings and cases— sometimes working with Molly to further her own findings and study.

But worst, and what had cemented Victor’s opinion of John, was the comment on Sherlock’s tattoo. The little ring of names over his wrists. The ones Victor had helped plan and set up at Sherlock’s request. The ones that had hurt worse because they covered ragged scars, but offered some of the best healing Victor could see— as Sherlock sometimes just smiled at the marks during a quiet moment. After John’s comment, Victor had taken to making his own tattoos more visible— of answering the door half dressed, or letting Liam crawl over him with the wide-eyed wonder the boy had for all the different colours that marked his Daddy’s skin.

It was the way the comment just tumbled out from John that set Victor on edge. That he had a clear division of what made people ‘better’ ingrained enough to just say:

"Don’t think some of the better clients are going to like that. Can you get it removed?"


	6. Chapter 6

At some point, Liam started to sleep through the night. At first he thought it was the change in weather, but nothing had really changed over the course of a week except for more rain. In the end, he decided not to question it; if his son wanted to sleep a full eight hours, Victor wasn’t going to question it.

He was still difficult to put down. Liam would fuss and reach for Sherlock, squirm away from Victor with a whine. Victor would watch as Sherlock would take the infant and cradle him close, muttering off deductions about the house and nursery and Victor, or talking about his last case, until the boy was soothed and Victor could take him back.

"It’s just the pitch of my voice." Sherlock said once— two days into his visit as they fell easily into this routine. "That’s all."

Victor preferred to be romantic and think that Liam could recognize his Papa, though Sherlock was only able to visit once or twice a year. And Liam still was quite young. But if he voiced that particular opinion, he was certain that Sherlock would rattle off whatever study had shown that children this young had no lasting memory, or without a genetic disposition to a particular set of people would attach themselves to whomever was available. He’d probably know what reward chemicals were released when Victor picked him up.

Victor preferred to think that Liam missed his Papa.

It took nearly a week for Victor to realize that he was soothed to sleep by Sherlock’s voice as well. He thought it was the relief of finally having a baby who slept a reasonable time, and having someone else to respond to any cries over the monitor, but he realized that he had started to fall asleep as Sherlock would tell him about business in London. Or when they’d sort out plans for a visit. Or when Sherlock would read from case notes.

Really, Victor just liked to hear Sherlock talk. And if he causes some minor offended as he fell asleep in the middle of some study or story of a case, he was okay with that. He could blame being a single parent for most of the year. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind.

But he had started carrying his mobile with him, just for the morning picture opportunity. While they all ended up in their beds at night, Victor had found himself waking alone more often than not. He knew that Sherlock was getting up with the first stream of happy babble over the monitor, taking care of Liam while he finally got a lie-in.

And more than on e he woke up to find Sherlock sprawled out on the sofa, asleep with Liam dozing on his chest.

Victor had taken to sending the pictures he took to Lestrade.


	7. Chapter 7

Babble was normal, expected, readily encouraged as Liam tested the sounds he could make. He would joyously babble every time Victor walked into his room in the morning; the ever present stream of sounds through the weekly Skype calls with Sherlock.

The more sounds added to his repertoire, the more Victor hoped to catch the ever important moment on his phone to send to Sherlock. He would correct the steady line of _dadadada_ to just “Dada”, or clearly narrate whatever he was doing (he not-so-secretly hoped the first clear word would be “tea”, just to annoy Sherlock).

In the end, it was predictable, but no less exciting when Liam said his first clear word. Sherlock had created a specific set of criteria: it had to be recognizable, in relation to a specific person, item, or event, and Liam had to be able to repeat it.

It happened over Skype, when Victor lifted Liam up to the screen to see his Papa. They expected another silly soundtrack of new sounds.

"Who’s this?"

"Papa!"


	8. Chapter 8

Liam spent his first birthday fussy and on a plane. Due to weather, scheduling, and the general chaos of travel, the plane hadn’t arrived until well after it was scheduled to. Victor wasn’t impressed, Liam less so.

But Liam was much easier to distract, and he seemed in awe of the different people in Heathrow.

At least Mycroft had sent a car.

Liam liked that even more.

"Victor, please do not take photos"

"How can I not?" Liam had decided that his uncle’s pocket watch was a toy, and while Mycroft hoped to save the damn thing, he didn’t actually want to touch it after Liam had put it in his mouth. "You look so uncomfortable with a baby on your lap."

At some point, though it was highly illegal, Mycroft had opted to try bonding with his nephew. He had allowed the boy to sit on his lap for their drive to a Baker Street— suit barely rumpled from his greeting at the airport. Though now it was stained by Liam examining buttons, spilling the juice his uncle offered him, and expertly testing the fabric with his tongue. There had been apologies and excuses— Mycroft’s disdain for Sherlock gallivanting around London with Scotland Yard obvious— but Victor knew that Mycroft was curious about the boy Victor had finally decided to bring for a visit.

Victor took great pleasure in explaining that ‘Liam’ really was just short for the full ‘William’.

"It could be a matter of national security."

"Is it?"

"…No."

"Then they’re going on Facebook."


	9. Chapter 9

It was a very different thing to have a something more than pictures. He had seen those— the silly little everyday pictures sent along in emails and texts, or put into the post. He had seen the little snippets that came from a very proud father.

There were videos too. Ones that he could watch at Sherlock’s elbow, while the consultant beamed. Liam’s first steps— as much as they could be called that— encouraged and filmed by Victor just off screen. The boy tearing into presents, and trying to eat the bows and ribbons. Babbling and the beginnings of words.

A thousand little moments that Lestrade was proud to be a part of, however removed he was.

It was another thing entirely to meet the lad. To walk into 221B and see Sherlock on the floor with a one year-old gripping his hands and giggling as he stood.

"Hello there."

Lestrade had always been good with kids. They liked him. He liked them. But leave it to Sherlock’s kid to be different.

It took one look at a stranger talking to him and Liam was trying to hide.

Within a moment, Sherlock scooped the boy up and brought him over to meet Lestrade.

"Liam, this is your Uncle Lestrade. He’s not an idiot."


	10. Chapter 10

They had taken Liam to the coast once— the fossil coast, where he could go on little, heavily supervised digs for trilobites and ancient shells. It rained, and was muddy, and the tour guide had decided that Liam had the look of a troublemaker. But the boy had fun. He had a small haul by the time they left, and they took lunch overlooking the water.

It had been a good— if messy— day.  
Victor kept the picture of Liam— grinning and covered in mud as he clung to his Papa— close at all times.

Especially now, as he sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair by Liam’s sterile bed, and accepted watery canteen coffee from an equally sleepless Sherlock.

"He shouldn’t be this quiet."

Victor nodded his agreement, too exhausted from worry to speak. But he leaned into Sherlock’s touch, eyes never leaving Liam in case their son woke and cried for them. Though he was seven now, and crying for his parents had mostly stopped.

There was a card and picked flowers from Amanda Watson, and John had given his referrals to an ever-prepared Mycroft. What they thought had been a cough and allergies caused by the pervasive damp of London had turned out to be an untreated respiratory issue.

One only made worse by the stress of regular travel. By the stress of fretting over two parents who were, in quite a few ways, regularly absent.

And now Liam, for all his childish bravado, looked tiny in the hospital bed with monitors and a ventilator standing over him.

"I thought it was just the change in air." Victor muttered, the way his son gasped and cried for him when they returned to London, as running with Amanda in the park triggered something bad enough to make him stumble and collapse.

Victor had never been so grateful for Mary’s calm demeanour in emergencies as he was at the moment Liam lost his breath.

"It was." Sherlock pulled the other chair close.

They settled in to wait for news.


	11. Chapter 11

He liked to cook. After long days— stressful days that ran too long, or had resulted in too many variables ruining his plans— he liked to reclaim the kitchen and cook. Once a week, at the very least, there was a meal made from scratch. A meal he planned and organized, and set about making with the same dedication he usually just brought to his work.

Today it was fresh pizza. The dough had been made the night before, and he rolled and spun it now. Liam had his own small ball to try the technique with, and the boy watched at his elbow for long minutes as the disk seemed to hang in the air with each expert twirl. A flick of his wrist and the ball was a bit wider, a bit rounder, a better shape.

The mess of failed attempts could be cleaned up later.

Arms snaked around his waist as he spread the sauce. Liam giggled from where he carefully— and with all the care and precision of a ten year-old boy hoping to impress his parents— chopped vegetables.

"Busy," Victor leaned back against Sherlock, all the same. He smoothed out the thick sauce with a wide spoon carefully examined for traces of blood and chemicals before use and judged what areas needed what. "If you distract me, you’ll ruin the pizza."

"Pizza is overrated," Sherlock muttered against Victor’s shoulder, arms tight around the other man’s waist. "You worry too much about it."

"You’re just upset I won’t let you experiment on the cheese."

He smirked at the small, affirming grunt, and reached back to wipe flour-dusted hands on Sherlock’s trousers. “Go get ready for dinner. And make sure Liam washes his hands.”

"What about your pizza? He was helping."

"And it’ll be a surprise. Go get ready."

Once a week, Sherlock did as he was told. He obediently stayed out of the way for hours. He fetched tools and ingredients when asked. He distracted Liam from the surprise of the finished product Victor liked to present.

Once a week, Sherlock ate whatever was put in front of him (though asking him not to complain was out if the question), and spent the day before cleaning the kitchen to lab standards.

Once a week, Liam learned a new recipe and a new trick, and watched in awe as Victor, not Sherlock, commanded a space with all the presence and confidence he brought to business meetings and his work. When in the kitchen, working on whatever caught his fancy this time, Liam got to see his Daddy for who he really could be— a force equal to Sherlock Holmes.

Once a week, the kitchen was Victor’s domain.


	12. Chapter 12

They got through a book a week. Some weren’t entirely appropriate, but no one ever thought that Liam could be sheltered from the extent of Sherlock’s work; and the boy liked to read.

Once he had worked through the children’s books, the classics, and the old series his parents once enjoyed, Liam moved on to the newer series— the silly ghost stories and science fiction, the ones set in historical periods and the ones set in boarding schools Liam wanted to go to. He picked up a book a week— fit in between watching football with Uncle Greg on Saturdays, and school during the week. He sped through homework to get to the next adventure and the next after that. There were pirates and princesses and dragons and scientists who all lived long, eventful lives around him.

Between trips to the little used book shop they liked, Liam took to Sherlock’s books. He learned history and crimes and science between mad adventures in Victorian boarding schools.

They never scared him because he understood that there were heroes like Papa and Uncle Greg and Uncle Mycroft to help people.

He liked to read.

Though the real trouble came when his teacher asked him to draw a character from the book he read last. All the children drew Hobbits and ghosts and Jedi or old adventurers. Liam chose Peter Pan.

He was quiet when Victor picked him up, book clutched right as he searches for pictures, descriptions, illustrations, _anything_ that could give him his answer.

"What’s wrong, Liam? Did you lose your place?"

"No…" Liam frowned and furrowed his brow, noticing, for the first time he could remember, the difference between his father and himself. "Dad, why does everyone think Peter Pan is white?"


	13. Chapter 13

There used to be days and weeks that passed without news, without a phone call or email. Long days where cases would have taken over Sherlock’s life, and days where Victor’s business took over his. They would spend seemingly endless hours with their respective Work, only to emerge for air and wonder what they missed.

When Victor adopted Liam, that all changed. If there was silence for days from one of them, the other worried. Newspapers told unspeakable horrors happening in their areas (no matter how many hundreds of kilometres separated their actual location from the disasters of the country around them, or how unfounded concerns were when Victor had a private security firm at his beck and call, and Sherlock had Mycroft and Lestrade checking in). Hours— never mind days— without a response could lead to a booked trip and a hasty bit of travel.

In the end, when they settled a bit more— when routines of weekly Skype sessions, daily emails, or calls every other day became the norm— Victor find that he could stand to have a few days alone. He could handle a week or two alone in the big plantation house, too quiet when Liam was away in England with Sherlock. Work that should have taken days with a young boy underfoot could be sped through in a few hours and set aside to review later.

There were quiet mornings, and eventful nights of calls and messages. A little boy on speakerphone explaining all the new things he’s learnt in London and all the new treats Uncle Greg has been sneaking to him when he visits. There were nights where, just after Liam’s had his afternoon snack, Victor would lounge on a sofa and chat to the boy’s voice that filled the room even when he couldn’t be there. There were promises to ‘come home’ soon, though home no longer meant the buildings they lived in.

The days alone were long, and filled with sorting out the mess of sales and acquisitions, securing stewardships and contracts, of meetings and calls with legal teams to ensure the workers he tried so hard to protect would not be abused when he left India for an extended time. By each call from Liam, Victor was exhausted.

He missed his son.

Three days before he was due to leave, Victor received a text. The name if the sender, the briefness of the message, dropped his stomach.

_Check your email. GL_

He expected condolences, obituaries, the dreaded “they’re stable, but…” as he checked through his more recent emails. A million miles away, and he could only expect bad need when it was Lestrade who sent a text or email.

Instead, a video loaded. It was a short video, and the sound kicked in before the rest of it.

It started with a waltz. Victor slumped in relief. Then he smiled.

It was a waltz. Not one of Sherlock’s, but played through a speaker, and tinny from being recorded through a phone. Liam stood on Sherlock’s feet, lifted and balanced around the (surprisingly cleared) sitting room, his small hands gripped tight in Sherlock’s larger ones.

The clip was only a minute long, almost nothing, but more than enough to hear Liam’s giggles. More than enough to grin at Sherlock’s smile, even as he danced with a child in the middle of his apartment. More than enough to miss them, and check that his tickets home were ready.

Victor grinned as he watched them dance.

He sent a thank you off to Lestrade.


End file.
